Breathe
by ashwitaashok
Summary: In. Out. Just Breathe. Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, or Kurt Hummel. Warning: Character death


**Warning: Homophobia, physical abuse, character death.**

He should have seen this coming. He should have expected that he would end up here, when the jocks left him alone that day. He'd walked through the doors of McKinley High School, expecting at least three slushies, and however many dumpster tosses and locker shoves as the jocks pleased, during the course of the day. But he'd been shocked when he made his way over to his vandalised locker, with names like fag and cocksucker scratched on the door and the lock broken open, the door dented. He would usually be assaulted with at least a few homophobic slurs by now. But all he got was the jocks side-eyeing him from where they were huddled a few lockers down, indifferent looks on their faces.

He'd made it through his first two periods without thinking about it, but then it had consumed all of his attention again. While he didn't exactly like having bruises upon bruises littering his back and sides, this change was making him uneasy. His skin had crawled whenever he passed a jock in the hallway and they simply ignored him.

All throughout his school life, he'd been tormented. At first it was because he had been a little scrawnier than the other kids, or because he had been a little shorter. When he turned six, though, that was when it really started. The first time someone called him a fag was when he was waiting for his mom and dad to come pick him up. He hadn't known what it meant, and it was only a lot of tears and some hot chocolate later that his parents finally explained it to him. They'd told him there was absolutely nothing wrong with it, but that some people just liked putting others down to make themselves feel better. He could still remember the smell of his mom's perfume that he'd gotten a whiff of when she'd pulled him into a hug that day, if he closed his eyes.

The bullying had remained purely verbal, bruising him emotionally, up until his freshman year of high school. He'd been terrified when he was cornered that first day by a guy with a Mohawk, and thrown into the school dumpster. It had been empty, save for a few glass shards, that had pierced his leg. He'd managed to climb his way out. But the next day, it had happened again. And it didn't stop.

Over the years, he had become an expert at dodging the jocks as much as possible. He was still tormented, but with his shortcuts, he had managed to keep it bearable. A few locker shoves was a small price to pay to get out of this shitty town anyway.

But then Karofsky had kissed him. And threatened to kill him. That had been a week ago.

He'd more than grown into himself this year, his senior year, all the pudgy baby fat that once clung to his cheeks gone, his shoulders were broader, his muscles toned from working for hours at his Dad's garage. But that didn't seem like enough of a reason for the jocks to stop bothering him.

He'd made his way through the day feeling increasingly uneasy. He'd bolted to his car the minute the bell had rung, and he'd almost made it, too.

Luke, one of the jocks, had grabbed him by the back of his shirt and roughly pulled him towards the bleachers. He had been too shocked to make a sound, but it wasn't like anyone would have cared either way. The Glee club still didn't stand up for him, so any of them coming to help him was out of the question. He was on his own.

There had been many more jocks standing near the bleachers. At the lead had been Karofsky.

Karofsky had smirked, tossed a few insults at him, and he'd responded with his usual sarcasm. Angered, Azimio had landed the first punch.

He'd struggled against their hold, for so long, but they'd landed kick after kick to his gut, and he'd fallen to the ground. He had choked on his own blood.

After that, it had been a blur. He could no longer distinguish each individual blow. It was just pain, horrible, horrible pain.

He had vaguely registered someone swinging a baseball bat. He had blacked then.

To his horror, he had come back to the pain again. He'd hoped he could stay blacked out.

After what seemed like hours, days, they had left.

Which led him to where he was now. Lying under the bleachers, eyes closed, unable to even swallow without his entire body screaming in protest.

He knew this was it. He had that feeling. Kurt Hummel had always had this spark, this will to survive no matter what.

Now, he just couldn't feel it. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. Just breathing hurt.

He thought of his dad, waiting at home, wondering what was taking him so long, probably sipping a cup of beer, watching the football game.

He thought of his mom, and that old smell, her perfume, how she'd held him close to her chest, telling him he was precious. He hadn't thought of himself as "precious" since she died.

He thought of that acceptance letter to Parsons, sitting in his drawer. He and Dad had celebrated at Breadsticks the day it came in the mail.

That hurt. He knew he wasn't going to see his Dad again. He'd accepted it somewhere between the last few kicks to his already broken ribs.

He focused on his painful breathing. He didn't control when he was going to- to die, but he did control the way he breathed. It hurt, God, it hurt, but he focused on each inhale and exhale as he cleared his mind of everything else.

_In. Out. In. Out._

_In. Out. In. In._

_In. Out. __**In. In. In**__..._**Out.**


End file.
